Quick to Judge
by Selion
Summary: Here it is: day one of community service or whatever. Attitude rehab. Waste of everybody's precious time more like and the courthouse can shove that right up their ass. All this over some spray paint. (Modern/Non-Apocalypse AU)


**Alternate Universe - Modern/Non-apocalyptic | John Hancock is a human | Explicit sexual content**

* * *

**Day One**

"You're late, kid."

...

Of course that has to be the first fucking thing the cop says to him.

Or no. _Detective._

Fancy cop over here with a special title and whoop-de-freakin-do who gives a shit. Though fancy's maybe not exactly the right word for him. He leans across the middle of the car to pop open the passenger-side door and as John stoops and pulls it the rest of the way open, he can see aaallllll the wear and tear on the guy.

"Yeah, well, it took me a minute to figure out if I was 'sposed to jump in _here_ or the dumpster down the block. Hard to tell the difference," John says, some of the bite sucked out of his words from the wince and hiss he gives as he slides into the hot vinyl seat. Fuckin' A, it's already like the surface of the sun outside and the car's a magnifying glass for it. Seat belt's gonna be a joy to touch if the cop's gonna be all uptight about shit like that.

And he looks like he is, scuffed-up face already creased into a mild frown. Presumably about the extremely true remarks about his ride.

Thing's a junk boat, no sense bein' all precious about it. Surprisingly even more of a junker than the guy driving it, with his wiring showing in more than a couple spots, yellowed plas-skin, ripped and patched and ripped again coat, the entire exposed framework of his right hand lookin' like something straight outta Terminator 2, and the oldschool, last gen gold-on-grey optics. Kind of a blast from the past seein' those actually active on someone.

And he's already angled himself back to the street, checking the sideview for a break in the flow of morning traffic. Craning out his window to glance backwards, barely seeming interested anymore. Or maybe he's mad. Ha.

"Yeah," John hears him grumble over the rush of cars shooting by. "The Porsche's in the shop, your majesty."

John smiles witheringly at the back of the cop's head and slams his door shut. The loud clunk of it sounds like undrunk beers, unboinked mall cuties, unswum pools at the Y, and unsmoked joints with Fahr and RJ. Like squandered opportunity.

Here it is: day one of community fuckin' service or whatever the fuck. Attitude rehab. Waste of everybody's precious fuckin' time more like and the courthouse can shove that right up their ass. All this over some spray paint.

John grabs at the thousand degree seat belt and clicks it in as quickly as he can, fumbling once and trying to shake the heat off his fingers. 'Course it has to be one of those freakish, humid as fuck hot days. It's not even noon yet and it's already into the upper eighties.

"So, you wanna get this show on the road or sit here and cook for a while?" John asks after a long, rattly groan. "Melt your other hand off."

The cop side-eyes him, looking even more affronted. "You're gonna be a delight to be around, aren't you."

"Hey, I have to _be_ here, not to like it. Court papers didn't say nothin' about that or about bein' quiet."

"Great. We're gonna get on famously, I can already tell." His weird eyes graze over John's sweaty face and lank hair and there's almost a smile before he goes back to the road. He finally flicks the turn signal down and twists the wheel over. "AC's busted, by the by."

John knocks the butt of his palm against his forehead and looks out his own open window. At the blinding sun reflecting off the nearby plate glass and the heat haze rising off the street down ahead of them. At the goddamn packie store right there that he knows, he _knows_ stays a nice, cool seventy degrees inside. Shoulda went in and grabbed a soda and one of those flat sheets of jerky before the cage slammed shut on this bullshit.

"Of course it fucking is."

-x-

"So, you're the rising star in the art world," the detective says as he zips through the tail end of a yellow.

They've been driving around for a good amount of time, no real rhyme or reason to the routes being taken as far as John can tell. No talking till now, so maybe it's a good thing the AC doesn't work; he can't imagine how goddamn fidgety he'd be in a silent, sealed-up car with nothing but the cop's disapproving aura to listen to. Big reason why his parents don't make him go to Old South with the family anymore. Try to make John sit still and shut up and listen to sermons and _no_ one's happy.

He's secretly kind of relieved at whatever this is. Attempt at conversation. Hell if he was gonna be the one to make the first stab, no matter how antsy he got.

"That's what they put on my rap sheet," John agrees, stretching and twisting his spine.

"And does he have a name, this burgeoning Rembrandt?"

"If you don't know my name already your department's even more of a shithole than I thought it was."

"It's called _introducing_ yourself, jackass. ...And it is a shithole but that's beside the point," he adds, muttering through the side of his mouth.

John snorts. And gives up. No sense fighting the stupid fights.

"John."

"Got a last name to go with that or is it a mononym?"

"A what."

How is it that every time the motherfucker smiles at him it feels like he's laughing at John and how much of a complete moron he is.

"Mononym. Y'know, like Cher. Or Raffi. Prince?"

"Fuck's sake," he whispers. "McDonough."

"John McDonough. Nick Valentine," the cop says. He scratches his hand back over his head and readjusts his hat as he squints at the road. "I'd offer to shake but I'm driving and I have the sneaking suspicion you'd leave me hanging."

"Hey, that's some good detective work."

Three minutes later.

"...And I think I'm more of a Toulouse-Lautrec or Degas, thanks. You can miss me with that Rembrandt shit."

Nick _pfft_s and shakes his head but John catches the look of slight surprise on his face. Yeah. Take that, dick.

-x-

"Where we goin' anyway? What is this?"

John's leaned forward, flicking the airless air vents open and shut with a satisfying clack. They're cruising around the west side of downtown, buildings and people sliding by and at least the seat isn't burning through his shirt anymore.

"Wherever there's some place that needs watching," Nick says. "We're on surveillance detail. That and patrol, looking out for APBs if one comes in."

"Surveillance detail."

"Uh huh."

"Sitting still and watching."

"You got it."

Jesus titty fucking Christ. John slumps back in his seat and slides until his knees knock up against the dash.

"I thought America had laws against cruel and unusual punishment," he mutters once he's sufficiently scrunched in.

Grey-gold flicks over, back away.

"Yeah, me too."

Man, fuckin' _what. _

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to, kid," Nick sighs, sounding way more resigned to his fate than John is. "I'm just here to do my job and make sure you're present, not get into a verbal jousting match every two blocks."

**Day Two**

"How long am I going to be graced with your presence again?"

John looks around, momentarily brought back in from watching some dude with a slushie in hand and four bags slung across his back struggle his way down the sidewalk.

"They didn't tell you?"

Doesn't sound likely. Cop's probably trying to catch him on something.

"Maybe they did. Maybe I wanted to see if you were gonna try playing hooky or not."

Ta-freaking-da.

"Yeah. Well. Thought about it." Fuck yeah he did. Couldn't come up with a good enough way to weasel out though. Not without getting caught real fuckin' quick and getting stuck in it even worse. "Ridealongs with a to-be-determined officer of the department's choosing for twenty-four days over three months. Every Monday and Thursday from ten to two," John rattles off tiredly.

Early enough to be annoying to wake up for, late enough to feel like a significant chunk of the day is gone. Thanks.

"Ouch, pretty much all summer, huh." Nick's face scrunches in a mild grimace. "Did you backtalk the judge or somethin'? Who'd you get? Collins or Ferguson or someone else?"

John thinks back to sitting in court with a headache; uncomfortable in his ugly dress shirt, uglier tie, and some slacks that kept riding up in the back and wishing to god he'd remembered to get some caffeine in him before he left the house. Why the government likes to do shit at the ass crack of dawn he'll never figure out.

"I don't fuckin' know what his name was. The guy with the grey hair and he's way too awake in the morning. Diddles around with his pens and papers a lot."

Nick laughs, quick and sharp. "That'd be Collins."

John'd been in a fucking mood the whole time he was there, but no, thankfully he'd been conscious enough to realize nothing he could say would make any of it better, and would, in fact, probably get him even more time. So he just nodded and said yes when he was supposed to and got the hell out.

"Whatever. No, I didn't backtalk anyone, I got a lesser fine if I took some hours like this and they said it'd look better if I want to… what's it called. Ex-something."

"Expunge it."

"Yeah."

Nick slows down to start maneuvering into a parking spot.

"So I got you till the end of August," he muses.

'_I got you'_ echoes strangely in his head, and John shoots a glance over at Nick but he's still looking out at the parked cars. Didn't mean nothin' by it probably.

"Yeah," he says belatedly. "Till August."

**Day Three**

"So, what's your deal?"

"...What deal would that be?"

"With the," John hooks his own hand into a claw and rakes at the air, "and the holes and all. Why not get the boards transferred to a newer model?"

There's a pause, his face unmoving as Nick slows for a red amid the other late morning traffic.

"Guess I'm sorta partial to what I was manufactured with, aren't you?" he says slowly, the car coasting to a stop.

John shrugs. "Iunno, I wouldn't mind a few upgrades." Those eye caps you can record or AR with, sub-dermal carbon mesh so you don't get your ass kicked as bad in a fight, or the implants that make some of your muscle groups like… fifty percent stronger without even doing anything. Fuckin' nice.

Nick looks at him for a few quiet moments then turns and shakes his head. "Nah, does everything I want it to; don't really have a need to change. Not in bad enough shape to empty out the wallet for repairs yet."

Feels weird checking the detective out from a foot and a half away, close enough they'd jostle each other if they both tried to scratch their face at the same time, but he's not payin' attention, so.

Nick's filament hoop eyes are something synths don't come with anymore; they don't have as wide of a color sensing range (or maybe it's fucking depth perception faults or bad low light vision who the fuck can keep all that shit straight) as the newer, more human-looking ones. Which, duh, makes sense since he's obviously not a gen three. One of the rarely-seen bridge models, maybe. John's not gonna _ask _though... getting into batches and run numbers seems a little personal.

Nick wears clothes like the threes, has the natural body movement like them, has the voice module to sound like them, but he's so _not_ human with the rest of it- the texture and color of his skin, the rigidity of his facial expressions, the lack of hair or unique features. The damage on him is the only big standout. When he speaks, all the inner workings of his jaw and throat can be seen right through the holes. Every servo, ball joint, and pulley movement of his hand and arm on display when he gestures.

Must be fuckin' bizarre, to be exposed like that. Like you're extra naked but only in those parts. And you don't get arrested for it.

"Everything, huh. Can you feel stuff with the right?"

"The frame registers pressure, that's it. Good for grabbing really hot things without damaging myself." Nick flexes his fingers out in front of the console and John gets an unwelcome urge to reach over and lace his own through them. See how clumsy or gentle they'd be. If the metal would pinch or not. Sharp or smooth against his own.

...

"Guess that's useful," John says, delayed as fuck and with a weird breathiness he wasn't expecting. And he knows Nick's looking at him again.

Fuck.

"Glad to have your approval," he says drily, eyebrow raised.

They drive on.

**Day Four**

"You ever pick up chicks in this ugly thing?"

"If they're doing somethin' illegal, sure, I pick up chicks."

And that's about the extent of their communication for the day. God damn, what a snooze-fest. And it's still hot as balls.

**Day Five**

Few days in and it seems like the detective's finally feeling the creep of silence. The car is blessed with scratchy radio tunes scattered through with obnoxious adverts that get stuck in your head just as much as the music. It's Nick's ride so he picks what they listen to; mostly old grandpa jazz (figures), little bit of news on NPR sometimes (which figures even harder; the cop is so boring. The only decent thing on NPR is the Car Talk reruns, shit's hilarious), and then channel surfing when there's ads on both the others.

That's where they are now. Five second blips of static, discount oil changes, something in Chinese, screechy sound effects, 800 numbers—

"Wait wait, go back one."

Nick dials it back and a familiar, twangy voice rides under the hum from the road. John reaches over him and cranks the volume up, shooting a challenging look at the detective. He'll fight him if he wants to switch this off.

The corner of Nick's mouth twitches up. "You like this stuff?"

"Are you kidding? Willie Nelson is the fucking tits."

John looks back out the window when Nick shrugs and leaves the dial be. He quietly sings along for a few bars thenlances over and laughs in delighted surprise when he hears Nick join in with him on the chorus.

When the song ends... whatever magic they created fades away, but the silence that spins out between them as the commercials yammer on and they keep cruising through the city isn't _too_ awkward or hostile this time. Not too bad. Thanks, Willie.

**Day Six**

"Look, quit callin' me that, would you?"

He's not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that every day they meet there seems to be some kind of mental and conversational reset between them. Nothing from the previous ride ever really bleeds over to the next. Whatever mood they're in on that Monday or that Thursday morning, that's how the day's gonna go and nuts to anything else.

"Calling you what?"

"'Kid.'"

"You sayin' you're not?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying."

Nick huffs out a raspy, obnoxious laugh. "You whine all day long, barely know how to dress yourself, you got caught tagging the _police department_ of all places, just got outta highschool… what a few weeks ago?"

John stares, momentarily speechless.

"Should maybe go back and take another year, I think," Nick says. "Learn how not to break the law, I hear it's real simple."

"Man, fuck you!" John yells. What the actual fuck is his problem? "Who the fuck even asked you, you fuckin' dick head?"

"...And you go right to cursing and name calling rather than making an actual argument. Now pipe down, tiny, I'm trying to concentrate."

"What the _fuck—"_

"Shh!" he says, still peering out his window and distractedly wrapping his hand around John's arm, presumably so he'll shut up.

Well, he fucking does. He's frozen in his seat; anger shocked out of him, words choked into silence, and his eyes pointed down at the long, metal fingers braceleting his forearm.

Smooth. Almost thin enough to be sharp but not quite. And cool. It's— they're touching. The cop's actually touching him.

John quickly tugs his arm away before Nick looks back and notices him all stunned and flustered like an idiot.

**Day Seven**

"Gonna pick up a pack of smokes." Nick nods at the squat hut of the gas station they've pulled up to. It's toward the end of their day… the day. "You're not gonna hotwire my baby when I'm in there, are you?"

John slowly turns to look at Nick, head tilted and eyebrows raised.

"Okay, first of all how dare you assume I know how to do that," (he does, but it's the principle of the thing) "second I'm not gonna get even more hours with you piled on me for something so stupid, third why the hell do you smoke, fourth of all really?" He pauses to take a breath and Nick's just waiting patiently for the tirade to end, leaned back in his seat and smiling vaguely. "This janky ass, no AC having, no power window having, busted up hoopty is your baby?"

"Hey now, wait a second—"

"And fifth I don't think I've ever seen you not in this car. Can you even get out? You're not attached at the ass like some kind of… inside-out man car centaur? Cartaur?"

Nick stares with his mouth slightly open till he snaps it shut.

"I don't... even know what to say to that. So I'll be right back and don't touch any of this," he points at the wheel cowling, "or the radio."

He gets out and stuffs the keys in his pocket and slams the door a little harder than strictly necessary.

John leans after him and grins, then curses and yanks his hand back when he accidentally puts it down on the molten center console. He calls, "Y'know, it's 2278. I know it's crazy but we got holodisc players now in these newfangled cars that ain't fifty fuckin' years old and broke as shit. Y'might wanna look into it."

Nick completely ignores him. John can barely hear him mutter 'cartaur' to himself as he stalks over to the little smoked-glass shack. Yeah, he can get out and walk around, fine. One point for the cop. Got a nice ass too.

What.

-x-

"You gonna gimme one of those?"

Doubtful. But worth a shot.

"Are you even old enough to smoke?"

"What? _Yes."_

"Nah, I don't think so," Nick says as he taps the pack against the wheel and checks his rearviews. "This is supposed to be a punishment if you'll recall."

"Uch," is the compelling argument to that. Fucking. Yeah, damnit.

"Bad habit anyway."

John gives Nick a sour look as he peels off the plastic wrapper, shakes out a cig, lights up, and exhales out to his left.

"Really terrible."

He's gonna touch the fuck out of the radio next time.

**Day Eight**

"You keep looking at me, kid."

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

"Yeah, well," John fumbles out, tongue feeling like it weighs a couple pounds while also being stuck to the roof of his mouth. "What the fuck else am I supposed to look at. Ain't shit goin' on with this," he gestures at the hotel entrance Nick's been scrutinizing for the last half hour, "and I forgot to bring my knitting, so tag, you're it."

"And biting your lip," Nick goes on like John hadn't even spoken.

He's mad suddenly. Mad that he was doing exactly that, mad that Nick noticed, and mad that he called him out on it.

"Hey, guess what? Mind your own business and watch your fuckin' door, not me."

John flops around in his seat and angles himself at the passenger window, the plastic creaking under him. At least there's something to fall back on when the conversation or the looks get a little too close for comfort: pretending the outside world needs attention.

"I'm biting them cuz they're chapped," he adds. "It's dry as fuck out here. Fuck off."

Nick chuckles, and yeah, it kinda sounds like that 'you're a grade-A dunce' laugh.

"Sure."

-x-

It's a half hour later and John is about to die. Of heat stroke, of exposure, of sitting in front of the same double doors with his eyeballs being assaulted by the flashing marquee, of not being at home with the fans on full blast while he pyros through some TF2 matches and waits for his brother to get off work so he can bother him into taking them both to Dairy Freeze. Gonna die.

"Biting your lip again. And staring at my hand now?" Nick says, interrupting the funeral plans. And John's mildly horrified to discover that he's right; his lip is in between his teeth right the hell right now and his eyes are fixed on the tiny hinges of the detective's pinky.

Nick lifts his hand and rotates his wrist in that spooky, robotic way that's got too much range of motion. Wiggles his fingers in a wave as John tries not to sputter.

"Correlation here?" Nick raises an eyebrow. "I hope not."

God… f...

"No! That's fuckin' weird."

"That's denial."

"It is _not!"_

Nick just looks smug.

"Man, shut the fuck up."

Nick lowers his arm, resting his palm on the gear shift and touches it contemplatively. And the clicky caress does not… goddamnit, it does _not_ make John think of anything else.

"Just don't bite my hand, I don't wanna have to run you to the hospital today. Low on engine charge as it is."

"I'm not gonna bite your stupid hand, the fuck do I look like?"

Nick gives him a slow, top-to-bottom stare.

"In the spirit of politeness, I'm not gonna answer that." Then he turns back to his stakeout. Mutters, "Don't wanna find out if I can contract rabies or not either."

Right before he screams, 'I'm not rabid!' or maybe throws a punch at the fuckin' guy John decides walking into one of those is enough and keeps it back, all boxed down into a quiet, pissed off grunt.

Jesus _Chriiist,_ is this day over yet.

-x-

And as luck would have it, every place they've stopped today has been right in the direct damn sunlight. John has that feeling of tight, itchy skin with too much heat boiling up underneath it in his forearms and collarbones and across the bridge of his nose. It never really works, and it's fucking uncomfortable when it does, but he's been trying to wriggle and twist in the car to catch the shadow from the door and the dashboard every time they settle in to park for a while.

Nick notices the futile efforts, of course, and snorts at him when he catches him at it, even more of course.

When he lets John out at the designated pick-up/drop-off spot near the house— the wide entrance to a short half-alley filled with fire escapes and recycle bins and sad, deflated basketballs— instead of a "bye, see you next time" it's "try putting on some sunscreen in the future why don't ya, it's the middle of summer."

So John flips him off as he hops out. Turns back around and leans in the window, careful not to touch the no doubt fiery siding and burn himself even worse- get a blister on there for good measure.

"Okay yeah, thanks, wouldn'a fuckin' thought of that myself."

"Obviously not."

The follow-up word 'dumbass' is not spoken aloud but it's heavily implied and John bristles accordingly.

"They program all synths to be such fuckin' assholes or is it just you?"

Nick shrugs. "I dunno. I like to think I'm special."

"Yeah, I'll say." John stands up and backs up onto the sidewalk; no credit for overtime with this.

"Take a cold shower, kid, might help with your problem," Nick advises through the window as he shifts back into drive and turns his blinker on.

John watches him pull away, swerve around a pothole, and disappear down the street.

"Well, fuck," John remarks to the nearby mailbox.

**Day Nine**

It's another day of nothing. The sun's finally chilled out for once which is _thank you, _but it looks like today's a lookout day, no patrol or the changing scenery that comes with it. They're parked on a block that's packed with apartment complexes, pretty nice ones too, watching people move up and down the sidewalks on their way to work or coming back from the grocery store or just out. Blessed with the freedom _some people_ have been denied and they don't even know it.

"You always do this?"

"Hm?"

John motions out at where they are, tucked up next to the curb with an unpaid meter blinking away nearby and a mourning dove making sad coos from somewhere overhead. Same, bro. "This. Not very exciting. Or useful. Don't detectives… y'know…"

"Go detect stuff?"

"Yeah," John says, amused.

"Yeah, sometimes." Nick makes some kind of noise deep in his throat or chest, an annoyed-sounding grate. He stretches out his legs, crossing one ankle over the other in the car's big footwell and resituating his shoulders. Makes the noise again, quieter. "I dunno if I should be telling you this, but you're not the only one in trouble right now."

"Oh, _really," _John says, half turning in his seat. This guy breakin' rules? "You do somethin'?"

Nick thins his lips, but also glances over at John as he does and side-smiles all sneaky-like.

"Gasp. You _did._ You gotta tell me what."

"It's not that great of a story, honestly."

"I'm pretty sure it's better than staring down these expensive ass triple deckers out here for no apparent reason while fuckin'... Dorchester soccer moms in pink tracksuits give me the stink eye, c'mon."

Nick laughs at that, a few short huffs of air. Barely anything, but John can't help the little blossom of warmth from hearing it.

"I went after a suspect too quick."

"You… huh? How's that work?"

"Got a tip on a guy who was gonna try and kidnap his own daughter. Wasn't happy with the way the recent divorce turned out I guess. And I disobeyed orders and jumped the gun and we lost proof of any wrongdoing; couldn't get him for the actual thing, only the attempt."

Damn. "She okay? What the hell happened then?"

"The daughter's fine, nothin' happened. I just," Nick breaks off, looking frustrated. "Guy was a… I don't wanna throw around words like psychopath, but, well. I just didn't wanna let a little girl go through that kinda thing if I could help it.

"Not the best course of action, maybe, and that's why I'm temporarily," he gestures out at the street, "busted down to being a pair of eyes and ears. Because as much as I hate it, I'm great at waiting around." He sighs and grumbles, "Least it wasn't a suspension."

"No fuckin' shit," John says, reluctantly impressed. That's actually pretty damn cool.

"Yeah. The mom has a restraining order on the father now anyway and he's being watched. But there you have it." Nick glances over, gives John a look. "My half of why we're stuck together."

If he wants to hear the in-depths of what John's doin' here… the stuff that didn't make it onto the police report, he's gonna have to ask for it. John's not volunteering, fuck that.

He waits for it but nope, there's nothing.

So he mentally shrugs and goes back to window watching. He can hear Nick hum to himself, no idea what _that_ means, and they both settle back into their seats for another slow dose of sun and zombie walkers.

**Day Ten**

"Why don't you make me then, huh?" John hisses.

They've been waiting around again and yeah, maybe he'd been talking a little too much but for fuck's sake he's been going fucking crazy sitting here and it seems like the detective's finally hit his limit on how much rambling and good-natured (most of it) ribbing he's gonna listen to today.

Nick grabs him around the bicep, like for real this time, yanking him closer to tell him off and John can feel… _Jesus,_ how much force he's holding back with those hands. Older synths don't have the same strength restriction cap the new ones do; yet another little detail included to make the newer kinds even more indistinguishable. No one's gonna believe you're a regular jerk off the street if you can crush your thermos with one hand or rip your hardback in two like it's made of kleenex. But Nick's being so careful with him, even when he's pissed enough to grab and pull. No accidental bruises from this.

And for some reason the idea of all that insane, brutal strength just packed away, lying in wait is... oh… god.

Horrified, John realizes he's _this_ close to tenting his jeans and his nipples are nearly poking through his shirt. How the fuck do you even explain something like that? 'Sorry, I just thought about how easily you could pulverize my entire torso and it's about to give me a crazy boner'?

He glares right back at Nick while he desperately tries to get himself under control. Tenses everything hard to try to get blood flow _away_ from there. It all… nearly works. He can't keep a low, whining moan from slipping out as he tries to yank his arm away and the hand holding him captive doesn't even budge. Shit.

Nick's eyes flick over John's face and thankfully nowhere else. He still sounds annoyed but also sort of confused when he lets him go and says, "Just give the lip a goddamn rest for a while, okay? It's pointless make-work but I still have a job to do here."

This is the last fucking thing he needs.

**Day Eleven**

"Why're you wearing that big ass coat in the middle of summer?"

Nick doesn't even glance over. "What do you mean?"

"It's hot as fuck, man!"

"Is it?"

Mother. Fucker.

"Is that why you haven't fixed your fucking air conditioner yet? Cuz _you're_ not fucking hot?"

"May've played a part."

"You— "

John makes an indecipherable shrieking noise and falls silent.

Nick taps the wheel, smile pulling at his lips and drives on.

**Day Twelve**

Nick stops for smokes again, some little corner shop in a chunk of town John's never been to. He's back before John can think to fuck with the music (next time, fuck it), and when he slides into his seat he's got a plastic bag filled with way more stuff than a solo pack of cigarettes.

"Doin' the weekly shopping on company time, huh?"

"Might as well," Nick says, rustling through the bag. "I'm still _technically_ in the area I'm supposed to be in, and there's… Hm."

"Hmm," John echoes.

Seconds later, Nick's holding out a triangular plastic box with two sandwich halves in it.

"Yes?" John opens his hand and lets Nick unseeingly tip the thing to him. "What?"

"Musta grabbed that by accident."

He looks at it. Chicken salad or something in the same lane, wrapped in cellophane, blue and white sticker on top. _Accident,_ yeah fuckin' right. John's kinda on the line between 'free food!' and 'fuck you, I don't need your charity' as he tilts the thing in his hand.

So maybe his stomach'd been growling extra loud today. Jeez.

He starts picking at the sticker, thumbing the papery curls to his knee and pulls the plastic off. Nick's still fucking with his bag so John takes a bite, stuffing about half in his mouth at once and oh _fuck,_ that's good, fine he was sorta starving. Christ, maybe he just needs to find something to eat for breakfast before this shit, won't be in such a bad mood all the time.

He chews and watches Nick swing the bag into the backseat and start the car back up, acting way too fucking normal to be anything but.

"Forgetting you don't need to eat huh, how often's that happen?" John asks, halfway to a smile with his mouth full of sandwich.

"Time to time," Nick says, not looking over.

"Need your memory banks defragged."

Nick snorts. "Kiss my ass, kid."

John grins and takes another bite as they shift into drive and pull back out onto the street.

"Thanks, man."

"Yeah, don't mention it."

**Day Thirteen**

"You have a gun, huh."

Nick snorts and stays silent for a significant amount of time before realizing John actually wants an answer. "Yes, I do."

"On you? Right now?"

"I'm on duty, so, yeah."

"What kind?"

Another pause. "Smith & Wesson M1917." Yeah, that means approximately zip to John so he hums vaguely. Nick cuts his eyes over to glance at John. "This goin' somewhere or did you just decide it was twenty questions time?"

"Can I see it?"

"It's a firearm, not a toy."

"I said can I see it, not can I play with it," John says. Followed by a slow feeling of relief that apparently Nick's too busy driving to pick up the accidental innuendo there. Jeesh.

"No," Nick says, peering over his shoulder before he makes a lane change.

"Aww…"

"I'm not pulling out a weapon while I'm driving around in the middle of the day for no reason."

"It's not no reason, I wanna seeeee."

"Satisfying your idle curiosity isn't a reason."

John props a foot up on the dash. "You're no fun."

"This isn't _supposed_ to be fun…"

"...it's a _punishment,"_ John chimes in with him. "Jinx." He grins as Nick makes one of the best slack-mouthed eye rolls he's ever seen.

"No fun means no jinxing, kid."

John cheerfully elbows him for talking anyway and Nick grunts and elbows him right back.

"And get your filthy shoes off my ride."

John dramatically crumples to the side and lets his foot slip back to the floor with a drawn-out _uuuuuugh._ Fine. Fuck. Can't win 'em all.

**Day Fourteen**

"You live around here? In the city?"

"Uh huh, I got a place nearby. One of those tiny hamster cage apartments."

"Yeah? What'd'ya do when you're not prowling the streets bein' a buzzkill?"

As soon as he asks, John immediately stills and wants to take it back. Why the fuck does he care about the cop's personal life? And from the raised eyebrow, Nick's having a similar line of thought.

"Well, I read," he says slowly, like he's expecting to be interrupted.

He could… he could interrupt. Should, maybe, what the hell is he asking this shit for?

Doesn't _really _want to though.

"I do the crossword in the paper, or try to; listen to records or the Sox when they're on the radio; babysit the cross the hall neighbor kid if her parents need a break. Work on case files." Nick pauses again, this time to make a lane change. "Pretty normal stuff, just less sleeping and I get to save a couple bucks on grocery bills and health insurance."

He can see it. Nick tipped back in a wooden chair in a little yellow-lit kitchen with a window open, coat and hat off and his sleeves rolled up to write in a notebook or somethin'. Chasing some squealing kid with pigtails down a carpeted hallway to make her put on her sneakers so he can take her to the park. Sitting on the bed he keeps made but doesn't actually use. Leafing through a paperback written by some long dead smart guy who uses fifteen words where three would do fine. Sounds kinda sweet.

"Got a girlfriend or somethin' like that?"

Nick looks amused. Moves his left arm away from his body and kinda glances down at himself and back at John like that's enough of an answer.

"No, no girlfriends."

Huh.

"Why do you ask?"

John nearly fumbles on that one, panics and almost says 'No reason! Nothin'!' or something just as fucking stupid and suspicious.

"Just wondering if you're always such a tightass stickler for rules or if someone out there actually managed to crack that annoying exterior. Guess that answers that."

Nick sighs loudly and drops it.

Phew.

**Day Fifteen**

John asks how Nick's face and neck got all fucked up every so often. Just idle curiosity and Nick didn't seem to mind the first time. Doesn't seem to mind much now either.

He always makes up outrageous lies about it. Put on a poisoned scarf, mechanical vampire got a little too enthusiastic, fell asleep in a lake and the fishes ate it, sunburns- those things'll kill ya.

Today, creeping down Tremont, the answer is: went to the zoo and a tiger bit me.

Ask about the hand and he gets more of the same. High fived one too many times, you ever hear about when something costs an arm and a leg, donated it to charity, accidentally put it out with the recycling, just got up and crawled away one day and who was Nick to stop it chasing its dreams?

If John couldn't look right at him and see his obvious lack of animal features, he'd swear up and down Nick had been a dad for decades with all the misdirection and horribly, _painfully_ unfunny joke answers.

It's never funny, but John always laughs anyway. Maybe at the fact that Nick's always got a new one lined up, maybe how he delivers each dumb reason so matter-of-factly without missing a beat. He doesn't even want a real answer now, not past the second time he asked. Now it's purely to hear whatever stupid thing the cop can come up with. He's always got something.

**Day Sixteen**

The 'accidental' food was apparently not a one-time thing.

John's on the verge of some giggly laughter at what's just been dropped in his lap; Nick interrupts him with a quiet groan and says, "What now?"

John picks up the banana and slits the top of it with his thumbnail so he can break it open without mushing the inside all to fuck. "Nothin'."

"They're good for soaking up all that salty garbage you kids eat," Nick grumbles, turning the ignition. "Or what, you got a latex allergy?"

It's occurred to him somewhere along the way, (recently, admittedly; what is it now, nearly a month and a half in?) after seeing all Nick's half-amused half-uncomfortable reactions- this doesn't have to be so fucking awkward. Instead of freezing and going all quiet, blushing like a moron... own it.

"Ha. I _definitely_ don't. I just didn't know you thought about me that way, detective."

Nick glances at him. "The hell are you talking about?"

"Pickin' up suggestive food to watch me eat." John grins and licks the top of the thing while Nick's still looking. All he gets is a mild frown followed by a look of exasperated realization.

"You humans think with your pants way too much." Nick turns back to the road. "Eat it or don't, no skin off my chassis."

John peels it and makes a big show of pretending to deep throat the banana, complete with moans and gagging noises, then gives up and takes a normal bite when Nick rolls his eyes but refuses to look away from the road again.

"What," John says, still chewing. He doesn't even like bananas, but this is too funny.

"Y'know, when I got this assignment, takin' you with me, they told me you were gonna be a handful. And I have become a believer, don't get me wrong, I'm just impressed with the depth of your depravity."

That's kinda awesome. Like he's got a reputation, infamous or some shit. Legends of John.

Hell, he probably does. This might be the first big fuck-up past his eighteenth but yeah, there's definitely some history there between him and the police.

"I don't know what you mean," he says primly.

"I read your report, kid," Nick says, sounding tired and wryly amused. "Among many… _many_ other worse things, you said to the arresting officer, and I quote, 'Oh yeah, detain me harder, daddy.'"

John bursts out laughing. At the utterly emotion and inflectionless way Nick says it and the look on his face like maybe he's trying not to crack a smile.

He's not really sure what else he was supposed to say when the beefy, linebacker-lookin' asshole tackled him and started rubbing his junk all over John's back while trying to cuff him. Maybe it was partially his fault for trying to squirm away from the guy as hard as he could, but eh.

"And don't forget it," John says, still laughing as he stuffs the rest of the thing in his mouth. "Onward!" He gestures out in front of them, peel flapping around his hand. "Let's get this sexy fruit-eating day started already. Unless you wanna go somewhere else and grab me some other dick-shaped food items."

Nick sighs.

"Yeah..?" John grins. "Like popsicles or somethin'. I'm in."

"For breakfast, huh."

"Dick's fine all day long, Nicky."

"Jesus Christ."

But Nick can't keep the smile off his face anymore and John chalks that down as a win.

**Day Seventeen**

Sex noises. John's seeing how unobtrusively he can do them, scattering them into their conversations, slowly ramping up the intensity over the span of the day.

A quiet grunting moan or a breathy gasp instead of an 'uh-huh'. Low, purring grumble instead of 'no' or 'I don't think so'. High-pitched whine for a remark of excitement.

Nick does say something, finally, when John gets a little too strident and it really can't be mistaken for anything else but the sound of a dude deep in the throes of a really fantastic blow job.

"Are you sick or something?" Nick asks, turning to give John the flattest look ever. "Or is this the shameful end of a dry spell? I'm not paying your cleaning bill, either way."

He sounds as deadpan and unmoved as he always does as John cackles at him, but after that, John swears Nick looks at him a little differently than usual the rest of the day and every time it's harder not to laugh.

**Day Eighteen**

Yeah, so he'd hoped… hoped joking about it would lessen it. That putting it out in the open would make it less of a weird secret and more of an everyday whatever.

Or hoped that letting things go on and continuing to serve out this forced punishment with Nick would somehow trick his brain into associating the person with the bad thing he doesn't like, put a damper on that stupid hot, prickly flush he feels when he slumps into the passenger seat and gets the morning hello.

But apparently it doesn't fucking work like that, any of that. After yet another long, four hour day of poking and prodding at Nick's sensibilities, prying reluctant smiles and exasperated laughs out of him and loving every single one he gets- it's been lurking there for a while but now it's awakened into a real, tangible, solid fucking problem.

One that he's lying in bed with at three thirty a.m., rattly plastic box fan wedged in the window and his sheets kicked down around his feet, hard and throbbing and trying not to touch but it's not going away on its own and he can't stop fucking _thinking_ about the cop and the unhurried way he moves, the raspy sarcasm, the look of his spooky, neon halo eyes when he glances over at John every so often. The way he hand-over-hands the steering wheel when he turns, the sound and stretch of his shirt and coat shifting around when he puts a hand on the back of the passenger seat (fuck) to back up, the tilt of the corner of his mouth when he's trying not to smile that somehow looks flat out sexy as hell.

Fuck. _Fuck _this isn't a good idea; this is gonna make shit super weird.

But he turns to Nick anyway, already breathless when he asks, "What do you want?"

He knows already, but to hear him say it, fuck.

Nick has one hand draped over the steering wheel, cigarette loose between two fingers. Facing John, focused all on him. They're sitting with the car in park somewhere quiet and tucked away. Sunset, street lights just about to come on for the night, crickets and far off traffic the only real noise. He takes one long drag as he looks John over, trailing from face to neck to chest to lap. Blows out a slow blue cloud of smoke.

"Pull your shirt up," he says.

John's hard as fuck, has been for a long time, but Nick's gonna make him take this slow at the pace Nick wants it. And John can do that. Even though the seams of his jeans are killing him and he can feel wetness smearing against him from his shorts cuz he's so fucking turned on. Even though on the subject of everything else- he's fought and fucked around every step of the way. He'll try this, do what Nick tells him.

He lifts his shirt, sliding it up and pinning it with his arms.

"Yeah?"

It's hot again and he's sweaty, can feel a drop tickling down the middle of his back, but he shivers with the weight of Nick's eyes on him. Impassively examining the damp stretch of torso on display, and each eagerly hesitant movement John makes.

"Touch. Do it slowly."

He does, fanning his fingers out wide over his skinny chest, sliding lower to cup his pecs and briefly pinch his nipples for the shocky twinge it gives him. Down over his abs that're there admittedly more by the grace of low body fat than any kind of muscle, down the light trail of hair disappearing into where the edge of his underwear peeks out over his jeans.

There, he stops, pinkies on his hip bones and index barely touching denim, wondering if he can make it to getting his dick out before he comes or if Nick won't let him. If he wants him to jizz in his pants like the undisciplined, hair-trigger teenager he is. _Fuck. _He twitches again and it almost hurts this time; breathes out hard and tries to get a handle on himself.

"Impatient for it, huh?" Nick says, a shadow of a smile on his face. It's darker now and his eyes cast light on his cheeks and the underside of the brim of his hat. It'd be fucking scary in any other circumstance, some shine-eyed creature out of the darkness, but like this, with his slouch and the amused curve of his lips, it's hypnotizing. "You're never gonna learn to relax, are you. Gonna go your whole life looking for the quickest hit of adrenaline, the easiest path to gratification."

John grins and touches the button on his jeans, thumbs at the flap of cloth there. "Maybe. What's wrong with that?"

"I just think there's something to be said for taking your time." Nick nods and gestures down at John's hands, smiling wider. "Go on. Let's see."

So he does it, slowly, the way Nick wants. Button popped, zip down and spread apart, jeans and shorts gently eased down so half his bare ass is on the seat and his cock finally springs free of the wet cotton, bobbing up to lay hot and sticky against his stomach. He leans back and squints his eyes closed, enjoying the slightly cooler air while he waits for Nick to give him the okay. Runs his hands down the insides of his thighs and back up, gingerly unsticking his balls from his legs but being careful not to touch anything else yet.

When he opens his eyes again, Nick's scooted in a little closer. Head leaned sideways against the headrest, hand on his knee. Caging him in from the side. John swallows and takes a breath.

"How bad do you want it, kid?" Nick says. "You're lookin' a little desperate."

John catches his lip in his teeth and tries not to rock up into the air too obviously. "Kinda feel like I'm about to explode."

"Hmmh." Nick takes another hit and looks him over as he does, easy to trace just what he's looking at. "Wouldn't want that, would we. Go ahead and get a hand on it."

John moans when his fist closes fully around his cock and he squeezes himself once. Feels so fucking good.

"Easy there, take it easy."

And that's not helping. Hearing Nick talk through it all, fuck he's trying, but every low, nicotine-soaked word is pushing him harder.

John rolls in his seat, turning his body to face Nick and hitching his knee up against the dash, widening his legs out as far as he can. He's not thrusting up into his fist but he wants to so bad. He can feel his heartbeat in his dick and all through his groin and he's so fucking close with this one, static touch. He slides lower and grips himself hard at the base, trying to keep himself under control for a few more minutes. "Nick, please," he grates. "I need to… fuck, come on."

Nick laughs and pinches his cigarette out, then reaches with the same hand and breaks the invisible divide between them.

"All you gotta do is ask. Want some help?"

He puts his hand over where John's got a deathgrip on himself and waits until John gets with it and loosens, letting Nick slide them both up and down his cock with slow, steady strokes. And oh, fucking _god. _John arches into it, hips lifting and rolling him closer to where Nick's kinda hovering over the middle armrest. He fucks up into their joined fists and lays his head on Nick's shoulder, turns in to push his face against his solid chest. The fact that Nick doesn't even seem to really care about any of this, that he's so unaffected makes it that much hotter somehow.

"That's it," Nick murmurs against his ear, and he's done for. John hitches a deep breath and feels it all draw in to one warm, buzzing center with Nick's hand wrapped around his and his lips in his hair. "Let it go, kid. Show me."

He comes, shaking and noisy and grabby and wishing to god this was all real as he wrenches his cock through his fist and shoves his heels against his thin bedspread. Lies there, out of breath, backs of his thighs covered in sweat, stomach and hand covered in come, and Nick's fading voice purring evenly in his head that he'd done good, just like that.

John flexes his wet fingers and sighs, heart still pounding and feeling like he's been electrified. He lets his body untense, flatten back into his exertion-damp sheets and, not for the first time in his life, curses his way-too-vivid imagination.

Oh, man, no. Not a good idea at all.

**Day Nineteen**

"Y'know what."

"I know a lotta things." John grins at the annoyed breath Nick lets out and gives in immediately. "No, what."

"You're… not exactly what I expected."

They're sitting in a parking lot this time. Department store with a big string of daytime car break-ins. As their assignment together goes on, Nick's decided to actually tell him specifically what they're up to every so often. Kinda helps with the cabin fever since it lets John concentrate on freaking anything other than passing cars and passing people and samey same buildings. And Nick.

"Yeah?" John says, interested. "What _did_ you expect?"

"Well." Nick tips his head down to light up the cigarette resting between his lips. "Hasn't exactly been a tea party or anything, but I expected a lot more, ah, outrage at being made to partner up with a synth for this. More hate."

"Man, I don't hate synths," John says, stretching out and curling his arms up around the back of his headrest. He's wondered how long it'd be before they got to this. "I mean _you're_ kind of an asshole, but that's just you."

Nick looks at him blankly. "You don't?"

"Nah, what for."

More of the blank look. "Kind of assumed with the uh. Four foot high slurs you wrote—"

"Ah ah ah. Back up there. That wasn't me."

"Right." Nick looks skeptical. Kinda sounds skeptical too. Fuck him. "Wasn't you. The one-armed man strikes again, huh? You were the only one on the scene, kid. With spray paint on your fingers."

John snorts. Yeah, he'd already heard all the 'evidence' a few times over from the questioner and the judge. "See, this is what's wrong with the justice system," he says. "Laziness and, as you've demonstrated here, too many goddamn assumptions."

Nick waits, eyebrows raised and cigarette burning away unattended in his hand. John tries to ignore that and the way he's sitting. Reminds him of… things. He shakes his head and continues.

"No one thought about why the handwriting was completely freaking different? The paint color? Just fuckin' whatever, right? Case closed? I didn't write that shit, I was doin' something else, thank fucking you."

"Uh. Huh." Nick frowns. "And you didn't say anything?"

Even if he'd maybe deserved it for being so loud and bringing the whole night to a screeching halt and for turning what was supposed to be simple, stupid fun into some kind of fucked up, hate speech politicized bullshit that John got blamed for… no. Last time he's taking Finn anywhere nice though, friggin' asshat.

"No, didn't say anything."

"Why the hell not?"

"Not really into snitching, baby. Not gonna do the fuckin' police's work for 'em either. Do it your own damn selves." John enthusiastically slaps his leg. "_Earn_ that taxpayer money."

Nick laughs quietly, still looking disbelieving and bemused and a bunch of other shit too. Rests his chin on his hand and gets back to the lookout, thinking hard about something.

Can't really help that John hopes it's him.

**Day Twenty**

It's getting worse. Every day they're together is torture. Sometimes he can ignore it, but for every slow hour spent so close to Nick, it's harder not to stretch his left hand out and try to touch him. Touch his knee and run his fingers up the inside of his thigh. Touch his arm and try to feel how far up the bare metal goes through his sleeve. See if he'd grab John with those inhumanly strong hands; see what else he'd do.

And the fuck of it is, he's not entirely sure if it's just him.

Logic says no, it _is_ all in his head. Proximity-based wishful thinking. All of this, every second of them being a _them_ is only cuz they have to be, because of Collins the pencil diddler shoving them into this little metal box together; out there in the rest of the world they never would've given each other a second glance. Maybe not even a first. Shit, it's a constant battle being around the guy.

But then there's the looks Nick gives him sometimes. The too-long ones, the slow, sexy smirks that might be on purpose or maybe that's just the way his face is? The way he smiles at everyone? And yeah, maybe his eyes are a little hard to read, but it sure _seems_ like he's fucking interested sometimes. Laughs at the not-that-funny things John says; smiles at him; teases John right back when he starts getting into raunchy territory; touches him, and not even only when he's mad at him.

It's confusing as hell and enough to make him hope there's something there. Anything at all.

"Penny for your thoughts, kid. You look like you're trying to solve the housing crisis and work out the national GDP all on your own."

Hmm. What's the absolute worst that would happen if he did, if he leaned in real close one time to see how Nick reacted. Laugh and move away? Or maybe not. Maybe he'd lean in too.

"Just hoping you put out someday."

...

Oh. Oops. Hadn't meant to let that slip out.

"Sorry to disappoint," Nick says after an almost awkwardly long pause. And the whole time John can't make himself look over to see what kind of expression Nick's got on. "But I'm pretty sure it'd be a huge violation of protocol if I put out."

"Oh no. Protocol," John says, smiling weakly and feeling sorta betrayed that his mouth decided to just say that without running it by his brain first. "Guess these star-cross'd lovers were never meant to be, then."

"Wherefore art thou a petty criminal? Deny thy crimes and refuse thy term," Nick answers with a snort, but he doesn't _sound_ especially amused this time. There's a thread of unexpected irritation there under the casual drawl. "I'll try to keep my pining to a minimum."

John chuckles a little, trying to lighten up the weird atmosphere. Laugh it off.

"Yeah," he says.

'_Me too',_ he doesn't.

They don't talk much after that.

**Day Twenty-one**

Awkwardness off the fucking charts.

When he gets in the car, Nick says 'morning', John says 'sure is', and that's the end of it. Any questions or statements are met with one-syllable answers or grunts or nothing.

What the fuck.

What the fuck happened? The other day, why was _that_ the thing that was out of line? So out of line that Nick's still fucking bent out of shape about it? He's said _and_ done worse before, Jesus.

Was it cuz he'd actually meant it?

Been caught not paying attention and Nick somehow _knew_ it wasn't the usual fucking around? Heard the pathetic, frustrated honesty coming through in his voice somehow?

He didn't even… fuck, he didn't even _do _anything and he fucked everything up. They've never been fucking _friendly_ or anything… well, maybe kinda working their way there slowly. Maybe a couple times it felt like it wasn't just necessity and boredom sealing them together. Definitely past the I'm-just-tolerating-you phase that it seems they've tumbled back into.

John gives Nick a lot of shit but he actually kinda likes the guy okay; completely besides the fact that he'd also like Nick to crush him up against a wall somewhere and work him through a wet, messy orgasm.

_God, _would he. And sometimes, hard to catch but he swears it happens, Nick gets a look like he might want that too.

But after that slip, Nick's been _frosty_ with him. And it feels horrible.

-x-

Nick drops him off in the afternoon. Says, "Next week."

"Yeah. See ya," is John's response.

He goes inside, closes the front door, leans against it, and frowns down the empty hallway. He can hear his ma clattering bowls around in the kitchen and his brother's due home soon for lunch, but for a few minutes he's alone so he just tips his head back and lets it clunk off the door.

What the fuck.

**Day Twenty-two**

What do you even do. What do you do after suffering through another long, confusing day of silence, complete avoidance on the eye contact front, one startling and accidental brush of elbow to back of hand (got a muttered 'sorry' out of that one), and tension so obvious it feels like the car's gonna suck itself into a singularity? Another day of being very pointedly ignored?

Turn and cock your head to the side, give him the fuck-me eyes when he sighs and finally looks over to see what the hell you're doing, and _really_ double down on the embarrassing shit. Run your hand up the back of his wrist and ask him if he's _really _sure he doesn't want to pull around the corner and fuck around a little. Just go for fucking broke.

And why?

Stubbornness, probably. Petty fucking vindictiveness. You get shut down (in theory, he guesses; how else is he supposed to interpret all this weird, silent treatment shit), so what do you do? Push again. Hard enough to really piss him off, maybe get him just as mad as you are. Share the pain and humiliation around.

It ain't nice but it feels good.

For a second, anyway.

Surprise quickly shifts to real anger and then, again, John's arm is caught up in a vice-tight grip and yanked off Nick's sleeve. It's supposed to be intimidating, and it is, but it's also making John breathe too fucking fast and he's way too fucking warm.

"Listen," Nick hisses, getting right up in John's face; to hell with how he's been carefully avoiding getting near him these past few days, apparently. John's lips part and he draws in a shuddery breath with Nick's eyes inches away and burning holes right through him.

"I just want to get through this without getting put on administrative leave or, Jesus Christ, being fired, okay? Stop with this." He squeezes John's wrist for emphasis, and John has to make a concentrated effort not to make a noise. When he speaks again, Nick sounds almost… sad underneath how ticked off he is. "Cruel as it is, I can deal with the teasing but you're taking this too goddamn far. _Quit it."_

He lets John go, jerking back slightly and looking down at his hand, kinda dazed. John can feel the throb of where Nick's fingers were when he collapses back into his seat; probably gonna bruise up this time. That's okay. Doesn't feel as bad as the rest of this.

"I'm gonna drop you off now," Nick says. He straightens his sleeve out, swiping at it even though there's nothing on it. "Take an early day. And I don't wanna hear another word, you got me?"

"Yeah." John slowly takes his arm back and shifts in his seat, closer to the door now. Closes his eyes and waits for the chugging roar of the ignition. "I got you."

He can't think of a single other thing to say so he doesn't. This fell apart so fast.

-x-

Well, he'd thought of one thing. But he's so fucking bad at saying he's sorry so he just doesn't. Probably fuck stuff up worse somehow. They get to the drop off and he peels himself off the seat and gets out. Stands there on the sidewalk with unspoken words pounding through his head as Nick drives away behind him.

-x-

He's almost asleep that night when a thought floats up.

Nick has never said anything about not actually wanting John back.

John opens his eyes and frowns over at the wall, the posters there a blotchy, black and grey mishmash in the dark. No, he hasn't, but that doesn't fucking mean anything, does it? _Not_ saying something doesn't mean the opposite is true, that's fucking stupid.

But is it _completely_ stupid?

He'd joked off every advance, intentional or not and serious or not, but Nick has never actually said _anything_ along the lines of 'stop, because I don't like you' or 'keep dreaming, you hideous goblin child'.

No, it's all 'the department wouldn't like it', or implying John's got brain diseases, or laughing at him and rolling his eyes, or the number one fave- sarcasm.

So what is it? Deflection? Or something else. Maybe trying to spare John's ego, but he never has before. Why start now?

Joked about everything, but now he calls it… cruel. Why.

Fuck, who fucking even knows. This is like solving one of those bullshit, thousand piece jigsaws where the entire thing's just solid black. It's so goddamn confusing because, yeah, up till last week stuff'd been pretty normal. Even a few instances where it seemed like Nick… like he…

...

Oh, fuck.

Is that fucking it?

**Day Twenty-three**

It's a little past two, few blocks away from being dropped off at home. He hasn't come up with a way to fucking talk to Nick about any of this, today or yesterday or so on, so the day's just been spent cruising around in painful, stifling silence. But this is it, he's gotta say fucking _something._

And John knows Nick knows he's staring. He keeps frowning but won't return any of John's looks and doesn't ask what he wants. Learned his lesson about that one, probably.

Nick blows a quiet breath through his nose and puts on his blinker to pull into the usual spot at the alley on John's block. He stops but doesn't put it in park. Hits the unlock switch for him (how sweet, so he can get rid of him faster) but John doesn't reach for the door handle.

"Nick."

Nick still doesn't look up. Keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes straight ahead, voice careful and face blank when he says, "Again. Can we make it the last few days without an incident, please. That's all I want."

And he's right, they're almost at the finish line. One more day left of these summer morning/afternoon car rides that've become something to look forward to, fucked as that is. One more and they'll probably never see each other again. No reason to.

John turns to face Nick, to look at him when he's trying to talk to him and frowns when Nick's shoulders rise and the rest of him tenses up like he's preparing for another unwanted touch.

"Man," John starts, annoyed, "I'm not t—"

"Just stop. Go home, okay?" Nick says. Still not looking. And he sounds fucking _mad_ now, fuck. This is going great. "It's not funny anymore."

"No," John says, pretty fucking sick of all the miscommunication for one and the interruption for another. "You know what? Fuck all this. Get out the car and talk to me fuckin' face to face. Tired of this."

He shoves his door open, slams it shut, and stomps around to the other side of the car where Nick's still sitting with his hands clamped on the steering wheel and a thunderous look on his face. John swipes at his door handle.

"Do it. C'mon, shut the fucking thing off and come on before I start disturbing the peace or something. Get out."

A long few seconds unwind. Maybe Nick's trying to weigh out if it'd be better to just gun it and leave John here in the street. Go back to the precinct and beg off the last day rather than keep dealing with the shitty kid with the shitty attitude.

Nick violently twists the ignition off, steps out, shuts his door, and rounds on John.

Who is suddenly a little afraid and a lot turned on.

Nick is a lot taller and a lot bigger than him in general, and even besides that, fucking hell that old adage about beware the wrath of a gentle man or however the hell it goes? Fuck, was it right.

Even with the short distance between them, Nick still manages to stalk up to John, all thick, bulky shoulders and furious gold eyes and clenching fists. Backs him up against the side of the car, gets right up in his personal space, and sounding like he's about to fucking snap says, "_What._ What in the _hell_ is there to talk about here?"

John licks his lips and takes a breath. All or nothing. "I was serious."

Nick's face twists and his shoulders drop a few inches. "Don't..."

"I was _serious," _John says louder.

"No, you..." Nick sputters. Still angry but confused now, like John's trying to trick him or something. Fucking stubborn prick. "Jesus Christ, do you ever listen to yourself? You're never serious! Everything's a goddamn joke to you!"

John releases a loud, growling breath and it's nowhere near enough to voice all the anger and annoyance and… terrified shame he's feeling. Thankfully his street doesn't get much foot traffic ever; his ears and cheeks are probably red as a fucking fire hydrant right now and nothing about the way they're stood here looks good.

He's even madder that Nick's kinda right. Yeah, he's boy-who-cried-wolf'd himself. Not the first fucking time that's happened.

"Look, it's n— I'm not—"

John stops, frustrated with himself and scared of whatever's gonna happen next. He's telling the fucking truth but it sounds weak even to him. His fists ball up tight at his sides as Nick just looks at him with his eyebrows furrowed down, eyes flicking over John's face, jaw clenched shut. If he didn't think it'd ruin his already shitty chances on this, he'd probably finally take that goddamn swing at him. God, why is this so difficult? What the hell is he _supposed_ to say? Why the... Fuck! Why is Nick being like this?

"Would you just fucking kiss me already!?" John snarls.

And Nick stays still for so long, staring at him with that intense frown that John's about to abandon fucking ship and duck out, all of a sudden dead sure he was wrong. He was wrong about this and he's hit Nick's limit on patience and he's gonna who knows what now. Give John a refresh on that road rash the first cop gave him and then cuff him? Drive him back to the goddamn police station and throw him in a cell for some bullshit made up reason?

Or was this whole thing just a dead end from the start? Maybe gen twos don't even do this. Something as human as a kiss or desire in general means nothing at all to them? Like they flirt if they want but there's no need at all for follow through. John's eyes widen. That's a pretty big goddamn slip up. Why didn't he even _consider_ that...

But then Nick heaves out this groaning sigh like he's been trying to hold up some heavy weight and he knows he's about to drop it and he puts both his hands out. Touches John's shoulders and slides his mismatched palms down over John's sleeves and around his bare arms and leans in so their foreheads are almost touching.

And fuck, he can _smell_ Nick this close. Underneath the clean scent of his clothes and the hazier cigarette smoke that seems to permanently float around his head, comes some faint smell like the electronic heat rising out of the back of those older, fat computers or TV sets that'll zap you if you leave them on too long. John lets out a shuddering breath and waits.

"Kid," Nick says, slowly like he's about to try and reason with John or maybe himself. But his eyes are fixed on John's mouth; hands aren't letting him go or pushing him away; thumbs are rubbing slowly over John's skin. "I shouldn't."

"But you want to," John whispers. Heart pounding like crazy, he puts his own shaky hand on Nick's chest. Slides it up over his collar, up to carefully touch the edge of the torn skin around his jaw; trail his fingers back down his neck. The brightness of Nick's eyes stutters and flares, only noticeable this close. They're so fucking close. "Right? I want you to."

Nick sighs again and he sounds incredibly tired, funnily enough. He closes his eyes for a long time and when he opens them he's got that barely-there reluctant smile on his face that John's always liked so much. Exasperated as all hell but it's there. "Christ, this is a bad idea."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the fucking club," is all John can think to say.

Nick huffs like he can't believe any of this, then tilts John's chin up and kisses him.

It's nowhere near like kissing a human. Nick's mouth isn't wet at all… no saliva. He's not hard like plastic, his lips and tongue have give to them, but it doesn't feel like skin and muscle either. Some weird, in-between of soft, pliable material over a hard metal frame.

Not like a human but, fuck goddamn, it's nice. Especially with one of Nick's hands pushing through the hair at the back of his head and the other dropping to curl tight around his waist. Especially with the low, purring hum Nick makes when John grabs him tighter.

"Fuck," John groans when he has control of his mouth back. "Oh my god."

"Yeah," Nick agrees and kisses him again. Long and deep and unhurried and better than anything John could've thought up on his own. Lazy sweeps of tongue and a slow scrape of teeth over his lip like he's being explored. Like Nick already knows what he'll find but he's still wants to search. John digs his hands into Nick's coat and tries to drag him in by his lapels.

And Nick plucks his hands off, easily putting a stop to it and holds them palms down against the side of the car. Smooth skin around one wrist, and hard, implacable metal around the other. He can't keep the whine out of his voice, getting out a strained 'Nick, _c'mon,_ fucking just—' against Nick's mouth and then against his shirt as he pulls fruitlessly at his hands. Can't keep from whining, can barely fucking talk for that matter, but Jesus, he can't help it. He's pinned and struggling against it and it feels like Nick's reaching into him and twisting every dial he has up to max.

He'd imagined Nick being like this. Confident, taking charge, every touch feeling so fucking good he almost wants to pass out. It's nice to be right sometimes.

"Hey, hey, easy," Nick says, words in stark contrast to how his lips are trailing over John's jaw to brush light, ticklish kisses over the side of his neck. To how he's already taken a half step closer so they're almost hip to hip, to how he's just breathing over John's skin. "Okay? We're out on the street, shh."

John's so fucking turned on all he can do is choke on his next inhale and try to keep the moaning to a low volume when Nick moves to gently sink his teeth into where neck meets shoulder.

"And you know, I'm still a little confused as to why… any of this," Nick says, nosing over his skin and then easing back to look at him, giving John a few inches to breathe.

"Man, I don't know." John scrambles for words with most of his awareness irised down to Nick's hands resting over his wrists, his thigh just barely rubbing up into where John is desperately hard, and the way his skin feels like it's on fire everywhere Nick's touched him. Throbbing where he bit him. Completely stunned that Nick kissed him at all… and then kept going. "I just couldn't… can't stop thinking about you. This. What you could..." He pushes back against Nick's hands and like before, there's no movement at all. Not a fucking millimeter. But Nick feels the resistance and he's gotta see the look that comes over John's face when he can't shift him. Nick moves even closer, squeezing John's wrists and letting him feel the heavy, uncompromising weight of him, chest to chest. "Oh, _fuck," _John moans, tipping his head back into Nick's advance. "What you could do to me."

A breath rushes out of Nick and his eyes do that fade and glow thing again. Fantasizing about Nick jerking him off all uncaring and stoic was pretty hot but this, seeing that he wants it too, is better. Fuck, it's so much better. He's not really sure he could keep his feet if Nick wasn't shoved up against him like this, it's just, god— it's _everything._

"Now that's interesting," Nick muses, lips quirking into a knowing curve and voice dropping low and intimate. He lets John's hands go, resituating his own left on John's hip and thumbing over his shirt. "Like what? What'd you want me to do to you?"

That just calls up a flood of tangled, indecent ideas that he doesn't have the time or the brainpower to sort through right now. He isn't really sure what he was after to begin with; he'd've been fine with just this, being proved right via an angry kiss or two crammed up against the side of the car before Nick decided that was enough and told him to fuck off.

"I… uh." John laughs shakily and licks his lips. What does he want..? Nothing complicated; he's a simple guy. Just a simple guy with a raging fucking hardon and the object of his affections for the last few months looming between his legs. "Want you to hold me down and make me come, pretty much."

Nick joins in on the laugh. It's almost the 'you're a dumbass' laugh, but seems like it's a little more on the 'aren't you cute' side instead. Which makes John bristle up anyway cuz it kinda feels like the same fucking thing.

"I could probably manage that." Then Nick grins even wider, eyes flicking down John's body. "Seems like it's not gonna take much."

He's pretty sure he doesn't have any more blood to spare, but John's face somehow flushes hotter at that and he shoves weakly at Nick's chest. Cuz he's right. "Man, shut the fuck up."

"Well." Nick leans down and kisses John, still smiling. His hand snakes down and John feels him trying to pull the car door open behind him. "If we're gonna get hauled in for public indecency, might as well do it in comfort. After you."

John scrambles into the slightly darker back of the car and flips around, back fetching up against the far door and his skin prickling with anticipation. Spreads his legs open, one sneaker kicked up on the wide bench seat and the other braced on the floor. It's not the most comfortable with the armrest digging into his spine and the window forcing his head into a weird angle, but he'll fucking take it. Nick hooks the door shut behind them with a quiet thump, dulling the sounds of the street and creating some tentative privacy.

"'Public indecency'," John scoffs, grinning through the way his nerves are snapping and lurching. This is exactly where he wants to be and exactly what he wants to be doing but the speed and ease of everything falling into his lap, almost literally, is taking him a sec to fully catch up to. Watching Nick scoot up between his legs and push his thighs back so he can sit tight against him in the space they're sharing isn't helping him calm down either; he's pulling at Nick's sleeves and rubbing his calves up against Nick's sides as he settles below him. Biting his lip at how hard he is and how he barely has enough room to open his pants, let alone get them off. "What kinda cop are you anyway?"

Nick's expression turns shamefaced for a split second before it goes back to mild amusement resting over that dark, intense look of arousal. He reaches out with his right and touches John's chin, turns his face to the side and drags slow, relatively cool fingers down John's throat and over his chest as their lips meet again.

"I don't know if you noticed, but I'm kind of a screw up."

"Oh, nice. Me too," John murmurs as he lays his hand over Nick's and pushes him lower.

Nick snorts, as if to say _I'm gettin' to it, yeesh, _but goes with him, trailing down over John's cock where it's crowded up against his jeans and cupping him gently, fingertips sliding under his balls and thumb brushing the zipper. John's breath catches in his throat as he does. '_Seems like it's not gonna take much.' _Fucking A right it's not.

"Can I... do anything for you?" John asks as Nick continues to feel him up; that slow, exploratory grip that he can't help thrusting into. Again, unsure of Nick's needs or wants or what John can actually do about them. Little out of his depth and sinking further.

"I think you're doing fine like this," Nick says, fingers ticking off the button on John's pants and palm rubbing up over his stomach.

"I mean can you get off."

Nick smiles like hes trying not to laugh again. Shakes his head. "Haven't you ever heard that one that goes 'It's more about the journey than the destination'?" He looks up and John gets a wash of deja vu; glowing eyes under the shadow of a hat brim, looking at John like he's prey. He leans in and kisses John again, teeth in it after the slow slide of lips and tongue. "Maybe I just wanna watch you fall apart for me, kid."

John shivers hard, completely at a loss for once.

Nick angles his shoulders around (and he looks even fucking bigger crammed into this tiny space, fuck) and gathers up John's wrists with one hand to press them against the glass of the window above his head. The other undoes his pants as John lifts up for him and they're roughly tugged down his legs. Underwear follows and he's out on display for Nick- hard and wet and leaking, thighs bound together, shirt thoughtfully pulled up just enough to be out of the way of the impending mess, abs trembling and flexing with his twitchy movements and the deep, gasping breaths he's sucking in. Nick shifts his weight again, looking like he's gonna switch hands.

"Wait," John says in a fast little rush before he does, too hopelessly turned on to be embarrassed about what he's asking for. "Like that, okay? At least for a second."

Nick raises an eyebrow at him but reverses the movement with a barely noticeable shrug. One long metal finger touches his dick, pulls downward in a lazy, twisting path. Then they all curl gently around him and stroke slowly, thumb rubbing up the underside. John squirms, lifting his hips into the motion and toes tensing inside his sneakers.

"Ho my god, that's weird," he breathes.

"_You're_ weird," Nick says, eyes flicking up to give John some kind of 'what the hell are you kids into these days' look, but he keeps going. Gently slides his fingers up and back down gliding easily over John's cock. Closes a little tighter and jacks him for real and gah, _fuck, _yes please.

"Maybe," John gasps. "Maybe I like weird."

His breaths are all high-pitched and he's panting hot over his own chest as he looks down at Nick's hand moving over him. Looks and wonders who the fuck else out there gets to have this. Who else gets to be jammed in the dusty backseat of a detective's beat up Plymouth and touched like this, practically sitting in his lap, gold ring eyes burning through the hazy, almost drunk feeling of arousal. Ha haaa, fucking nobody.

And then his next inhale catches as Nick's index finger circles over the head of his cock, slippery with pre-come, and the thin tip of it barely… slides in before he eases back again and resumes his earlier grip. John's eyes roll back as Nick lets his wrists go and he sags down against the door, his breaths sounding like screams inside his head.

"Fuck," he forces out. Jesus Christ. He can't tell if he wants more of whatever the fuck that bizarre ass feeling was or if that was enough for the rest of his life. Maybe that's the point. He feels like he's right on the goddamn edge as Nick strokes him faster and resituates to pull John down tighter against his thighs, whatever the answer is.

And frankly, he doesn't really give a shit as long as Nick doesn't stop watching him like this, looking so goddamn interested in every noise he wrings out of John as he jerks him off. Keeping track of every tiny shift of his face, every hitched breath, every involuntary lunge his hips make.

"Here," John breathes, and he knows he's close from the way he can't manage more than one syllable at a time if the hot pulse of his dick and the way it feels like his spine is halfway melted didn't give it away. "Here," he says, and tips his head back as much as he can in the space he's in, wriggling against the armrest. Hopes Nick gets what he means because this is almost over and he wants to feel this.

And he does. The hand around John's hip stills, then loosens, then moves up. Knuckles dragging over the exposed strip of stomach, the hem of his shirt, then a flat, gradual slide up his chest and neck leaving John's skin tingling with every point of contact. Nick lays his hand over John's throat and slowly curls his fingers in so they're touching every bit of his skin. Not grabbing or pressing, just a loose, careful grip with his thumb rubbing over John's pulse, but it's enough. He can feel the threat there, the suggestion. It's fucking plenty. He moans and bucks up into Nick's other hand, slick and cool and still twisting over his cock.

Nick leans down over him, left hand pressing in just a shade harder as he moves, and turns John's head to look at him. He gently kisses him, smelling like smoke and electricity, their lips just barely brushing together. "Close, huh," he murmurs.

John nearly sobs. "Tell me to— Let me—" He's babbling but can't stop it or fix his stupid mouth. Fuck, he feels like he's being ripped in half and burned alive and he can't do a thing about it except grab onto Nick's sleeve and the seat belt hanging by his face and pretend he's not going out of his mind. "Please," he whispers. "Tell me you want me to."

Nick smiles and kisses his eyebrow, his temple, leans in so his mouth is hovering close to John's jaw. "Go on. Let me hear what you sound like, kid," he says, raspy and low like always but with so much more behind it right now. He shifts up and teeth graze John's ear. Something like lightning shoots down his back and his mouth drops open. "Come for me."

He does, all of it intensifying to an insane level— the anchoring grip on his throat, the easy tone of I-know-exactly-what-I'm-doing in Nick's voice, the ring of skeletal metal fingers around his cock, the smell of Nick's clothes and the sound of him groaning low in his throat —and then crashing down around him at once. John comes so hard his vision goes briefly white, clutching at Nick's sleeve and sucking in long, moaning breaths as Nick strokes him and runs his hand down from his neck to his chest again, rubbing him soothingly and hooking around his hip. He shudders and gasps, letting Nick bring him through to the end. Quivery and sensitive and mind reeling as his heart pounds and Nick gently lets him go and draws back.

John laughs, breathy and high as he slumps against the door. He can feel the come on his stomach, sweat standing on his neck and back, and the press of Nick's legs under his. He laughs from the post-orgasm comedown and from the fact that on any other day he'd probably be inside helping his ma with dinner or taking out the trash or up fuckin' around in his room till RJ gives him a call. What the hell.

He closes his eyes and lets everything flow. Loosens up and sighs out a shaky, satisfied breath. Just a few seconds to chill with Nick's hands resting on him is all he wants before the awkward cleanup, awkward talk if it comes to that, and awkward exit. For now, just like this, this is perfect.

**Day Twenty-four**

It's a quiet day again but not like it has been. It's a comfortable quiet broken by the usual kinds of comments and observations. When their arms or elbows touch in the middle of the car, they lean into it instead of jerking away. Smiles and shoves and occasional laughter instead of frustrated sighs and chilly looks.

They've already had the conversation about the report Nick's gonna make back to the courthouse. He'll confirm that John served his time, expressed remorse, learned his lesson, doesn't seem like he'll be a repeat offender, yadda yadda. Already done all that and signed what they needed to sign and they're parked again, at the spot where they always say goodbye for the day, but this is the last one. And it's makin' John kinda sad, damnit. He's gonna miss this shit. All of it too, not just the ill-advised sex.

"Guess we're all settled up then," Nick says, sounding about as reluctant as John feels. Silence falls heavily between them.

He doesn't really wanna get out of the car and go home, if he's being honest with himself. He wonders briefly how much respect he'd lose if he just latched onto the door handle like a monkey and didn't let go. Yoinked Nick's cuffs and looped himself to the steering wheel.

Hmmm.

Nick turns in his seat and waits for John to look back at him before he speaks again.

"Do you— Was that okay with you?"

"What?"

Nick raises his eyebrows slightly, thins his lips like John's being difficult. "What we did the other day."

Well, he _is_ fucking difficult. It's his goddamn _job._

"I'm afraid I'm terribly forgetful, you'll have to refresh my memory."

Nick rolls his eyes and sighs. "Guess that's a yes."

"D'aw." John grins and spreads his legs indecently wide, plucks at the crotch of his jeans, and props his elbow in the open window. "Look at you, can't even say it."

Nick tips his head back at the ceiling and blinks, looking approximately three good seconds away from grabbing John and shaking him or just burying his face in his hands and giving up.

"Yes, making out with you and then getting a fucking amazing handjob in the backseat was totally okay with me. Idiot."

Nick makes that annoyed grating noise.

"Wouldn't mind goin' again either," John says, winking.

And Nick laughs at that, kind of shrilly and shaking his head but he's smiling. "Christ."

"Y'wanna?" John stretches over and traces the top of Nick's thigh with one finger, grins when Nick takes his hand and holds it against his leg instead of the violent denial of other times. "Take me out for a frappe or somethin' if you don't want it to feel so cheap, huh."

"Know what," Nick says. "Stay outta trouble and maybe I'll think about it."

"You promise?"

"I promise I'll _think_ about it."

And Nick pulls him in and kisses him, slow and soft and for not nearly long enough. He looks at him when he settles back, tracing over John's face with his hand on his chin, looking like he's categorizing every feature. Maybe he is. Whatever he's doing it's making John's heartbeat go too fucking fast.

"You're probably one of the most aggravating people I've ever met," Nick tells him. "And I mean that in the nicest way possible." He jerks his head at the sidewalk behind John. "Now get outta here before you make me late for check-in the second time in a row."

John smirks and thumbs the release on his seat belt. "You liked it."

"Actually, what I like is not having to answer awkward questions from the captain about where I was for a half hour and what I was doing there," Nick says. But he's got a look that John's pretty damn sure means yes, I liked it a lot. Maybe even I like _you_ a lot.

Nick kisses him one more time, hand on his cheek and eyes bright even through the afternoon sun and the now sad smile on his face. "See you around, kid."

No more excuses, sadly. This is the end. John smiles back anyway.

"See you around, Nick."

**Epilogue**

Summer was already mostly on its last legs, but another month's gone by and fall is making a stand again which is, honestly, the far more natural state of things- cold as fuck with damp, salty wind blowing up your cuffs and freezing your balls off. John's waiting for the transfer bus, leaned up against the schedule pole and trying to figure out if maybe just fucking walking would be better than standing around for another fifteen plus minutes. Who knows if it's even coming. He sucks air through his teeth as another gust of wind whistles past. Closes his eyes for a minute and listens to the traffic and the dismal sound of not-bus.

Interrupted by a car slowing and pulling up to the curb behind him.

"Well, look at this. Still hangin' around on street corners," calls an extremely familiar voice.

John turns, heart already jumping into his throat.

Nick grins at him from where he's leaned across the middle of his car, peering up out the open window at him. "Where you off to, kid? Want a ride?"


End file.
